Knowing Sherlock Holmes
by ohmygodwritersblock
Summary: John has grown up with parents who won't divorce and a sister who lashes out. It wasn't even a surprise when she started drinking. He's busted up his shoulder so he's off rugby and meeting Sherlock provides the perfect distraction from life in general. Teen!lock. John meets Sherlock during high school. AU. Eventual friends to lovers.
1. Chapter 1

**Nope, don't own Sherlock. Wish I did. **

**I've been wanting to write Teen!lock for a while and now I am! So much fun. The book titles mentioned in this are actual forensic science books. Look them up if you don't believe me.**

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_Have you ever stared at something for a really long time and it just ceases to be an object and just becomes an image? Like on a 2D screen. Like it no longer has a meaning, its just something in front of your eyes._

_This is what has happened to my english teacher._

_I'm seeing him leaning against his desk, and I'm hearing his voice, like a sort of low buzzing on the inside of my ears. But I'm having trouble viewing him as one entity, he's just sort of separated into a bunch of lines._

_I am so bloody bored._

_I've managed to carve a circle into the wood of my desk with the pressure of my pencil. I should be taking notes, but this requires a lot less effort and I just can't concentrate today. My mind is numb and melting all in the same instant. And its a Monday. I have four more days of this._

_The bell won't ring for another twenty seven minutes._

_The bell won't ring for another twenty three minutes_

_Twenty two minutes_

_Twenty minutes left._

_I'm usually better than this. I'm a good student and I work really hard. I just didn't get a lot of sleep last night. I had to stay up in case Harry stumbled home and couldn't make it up the stairs. Last time she came home completely pissed, she tripped and fell on the stairs and just decided not to get up. She vomited on the step next to her and fell asleep._

_I make an effort to bring the monotonous hum of the teacher's voice into focus, but I can't - why is grammar so boring?_

_My head thunks down on my desk, but I have to quickly pull it up in case it calls attention to my catatonic state._

_Fifteen minutes to go._

_Fourteen._

_Twelve._

_I blink my eyes repeatedly, captivated by the way the word John, printed across the top of the paper, slides in and out of focus._

_Ten._

_Nine._

_I will not look at the clock again, it just makes time seem to pass even slower._

_Five._

_Oh thank God. Five more minutes. I can get through five more minutes._

_At the three minute mark I start to slide my papers together, and hook my foot under one strap of my bag to pull it closer to me._

_One minute._

_I am packed and out of the door a second after the bell rings._

Chatter rises from opening classrooms and the fog over John's brain lifts a little with it. At his locker, he twists the combination quickly and pulls it open. Charlie appears next to him, science binder and pencil case hanging casually in his left hand. "Have fun with Mr. Dawson?"

John gives him a look. "As always. Right laugh, he is."

Charlie grins, "At least you didn't have piles of worksheets on 'simple and complex machines' assigned. And I have rugby practice." He groans, "It won't be any fun without you there, mate. When can you play again?" He eyes John's left shoulder, dislocated during a particularly vicious tackle.

John sighs, it really is inconvenient, "Nine weeks to go, I can't even carry my bloody bag properly." He glances at his backpack, that now hangs from his right shoulder. It doesn't feel right.

Charlie makes a noise in sympathy, before pushing off from the locker to make way for a guy with thick blond hair and copious amounts of acne. "Well, see you John. You know how coach is."

"Yeah, better make a run for it. See you tomorrow." John watches Charlie jog down the hallway for a second, briefly wishing be to running with him. But its been a long day and he's sort of relieved not to have to jog around a pitch for hours.

John grabs a few books out of his locker and stuffs them into his bag. He slams the door shut, snaps the lock and starts his walk home, through the throngs of students clogging the arteries of the hallways.

He's makes it about halfway to his house before the contemplation on where Harry will be tonight, and whether or not his father will be late home from 'work' finally makes him turn back around.

He can put off dealing with them for a few more hours.

Instead, John tugs his bag into a more comfortable position on his good shoulder, and walks four streets over, to a small library that he frequents often during the summer. Escaping his father, who yells and disappears from the house, and his sister, who giggles in her room with her newest 'friend' and the clink of bottles and glasses. And his mother, who no matter how often or loudly anyone yells at her, just feebly accepts anything that comes at her.

The bell over the door jingles like a metal laugh.

The elderly lady behind the counter, in a worn, overstuffed armchair, glances up as John enters and greets him with a warm smile. "John, dear! Oh I haven't seen you in ages, how have you been?" She meets him halfway, wrapping her arms around him in an affectionate hug.

John grins, and hugs her back. "I've been fine, Mrs. Hudson. Just school has been a little difficult lately. I don't have football practice for a while, so I thought I'd stop by."

Mrs. Hudson gives him a knowing look. She had been his outlet when things had got too much at home. She was a constant. Hot tea and a good book.

"Family issues are always the worst. You should've seen my husband, but Sherlock sorted it all out." John gives a start at the odd name, he'd heard it somewhere before. He was that kid that Anderson constantly complained about. Rich. Odd. "Oh you simply must meet him. You two would get along splendidly."

John wasn't completely sure about that. He'd seen Sherlock once or twice. He was pale and gangly and almost ethereal in his looks. And Anderson, prick that he was, could not have exaggerated all of his stories completely. If there was any kernel of truth in any of the stories about Sherlock Holmes, he was a self absorbed genius and a complete prat. Not exactly a winning combination. But Mrs. Hudson had clapped her hands over her breast at the mention of this boy's name and was wearing such a fond expression, that John couldn't bear to let her down. So he followed her through the winding stacks of musty books until she reached a table that had clearly been dragged over, and pushed between shelves that held heavy, musty books with names like Criminalistics and Forensic Science: Advanced Investigations. The desk was piled high with books from much the same vein, and nearly obscured by the piles, was a head of dark, curly hair. A contrast to the bright sunlight that carried dust mites through the window deep set into the wall.

"Sherlock, dear. Come and meet John."

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**And there we have it. I've already started the second chapter, and am just working a few things out, so that will be up soon. Sorry about the switches in person, it started as a first person, but then I remembered that I hate first person and also that I can't write first person, so third it was. **

**And Charlie is a character of my own invention because I feel like John needs friends. I could have used Mike, but it doesn't seem to me like him and John were ever particularly good friends, more like they had a mutual friend or they were acquaintances.**

**I have to apologize for the sad lack of Sherlock in this chapter. There will be much more of him in the next (:**

**Feel free to tell me (please do) if you notice any OCCness and I will try my best to remedy it. Reviews are more than welcome, constructive criticism, criticism, and blatant praise as well *hint hint***


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow! Thanks so much for all your amazing reviews and follows and favorites. I really appreciate it and you have no idea how much I keep smiling when I check my traffic stats. You are all brilliant. **

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There is a rustle of papers and for a second John is slightly confused. Then, he sees pale limbs extending from under the table and then the sharp angles of a face appear from the shadow. John is perplexed, _was he reading under the table?_ and the question must have been written plainly across his face (he hates when that happens) because the boy looks at him and says immediately, "Window seat. There's no room around the table."

John doesn't quite know what to say to that, but luckily, Mrs. Hudson fills the void.

"Sherlock, this is John."

"Obviously." Sherlock replies. John feels a stirring of anger at this, Mrs. Hudson has been nothing but lovely to him.

"Hey, you can't jus-"

But Mrs. Hudson can fight her own battles, "Now Sherlock, don't be like that. John is interested in science, too. I thought you boys would get along splendidly." She addresses John, "Sherlock helped my out with my husband, you know. He was on death row." She whispers the last part, like parting with a secret.

John regards Sherlock in a new light, "You got a man off a death penalty?"

"Oh no," smirks Sherlock, the expression tight across his face, like it shouldn't fit the twist of his lips "I ensured it."

And again, John doesn't know how to respond but he is very sure that he doesn't like Sherlock, who is all flat, sharpened words and slim angles.

But he really doesn't have a choice but to stay with him, because Mrs. Hudson is bustling off to 'get you some tea, dears' and John is left to stand with this stranger, in the empty silence that stretches between the stacks.

Sherlock's stare feels like it is shaving the skin from you, and pulling your organs out and lying them in front of you. Forcing you to re-examine everything about you. John stands a little taller, attempting to make up for the height difference.

And the silence is broken by a long breath, and then, "Family issues. Weak mother figure, though she is still in the house. Made apparent by your fondness for Mrs. Hudson, but you do not completely rely on her. So, your mother is quiet and your father is… an alcoholic? Ah, no. That's your older brother. Your shoes are worn, hand me downs. Scuffed and scraped, but not by you. Your hair is neat and your shirt is clean. How did I know your older brother drinks? Your reaction made it clear that it was not your father, but you flinched, so someone in your family. Your mother is weak, so it isn't her. That only leaves the older sibling. Your father is having an affair. Yes. Possibly multiple affairs. Yes. And your mother knows about them. You have no close family, cousins or grandparents, or they would have stepped in to help with the alcoholic sibling and the crumbling marriage. You are the only relatively emotionally stable one. You work all your stress out on the rugby pitch. Very nearly team captain, I should think. But you're not playing at the moment, that's why you're here. You've dislocated your shoulder. Most likely during a match. Your bag is equally worn on both straps, and yet you are wearing only the one strap on your right shoulder and are constantly adjusting it. Discomfort, unease. You are unused to it." He pauses his torrent to slide his eyes over John once more, before meeting his eyes. He seems unperturbed by the distinct set in John's jaw, or the way his face is struggling to remain unaffected, despite the way his eyebrows have drawn together. "So, what did I get wrong? There's always something."

And John can do nothing but work his jaw for a second, before saying slowly, quietly, "Sister."

"What?" Sherlock strains to hear him, impatient.

"I have a sister, not a brother." John is choking on his own words right now, watching them stumble into the thick air. He should be saying something else, anything else. Saying, no, you're wrong. Because it shouldn't be right, why does it have to be right? But there it all is, laid bare before his still-beating organs. And this boy, this horrific genius, can see it all, written in the scuffs on his trainers and the expression on his face. He clears his throat, trying to keep his face devoid of emotion. "How di-" he tries again, "How did you know all that?"

A brief look of confusion flits across Sherlock's face, and then there is the eyeroll of an exasperated mind.

"It was obvious, I put together the clues and observed. Some of it, I admit was well informed theories."

"So you, you guessed, it all, then?" John is in equal parts horrified and relieved.

Sherlock looks incredibly offended by the suggestion. "Guess? I would never guess," He almost spits the word, "Guesses are for idiots and those blind to the facts."

There does not appear to be much more to say, so they stand there, in a halo of swirling dust mites. The sound of Mrs. Hudson's footfalls are dampened by the carpet, and they wait, suspended in the steps between them.

For some reason, in the second before Mrs. Hudson rounds the corner, tea tray laden with biscuits and steaming mugs, a thought crosses John's mind, that this might be a turning point. To what, he isn't sure.

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**Sorry that this took a while, and its a bit of a Nothing Chapter. The next one will be better, because I know what is going to happen. It appears that the plot will be a little slow, but they'll be friends soon. It always seems to be a pretty instant thing with these two, once they get past the initial you-are-so-weird-I-don't-quite-know-what-to-make-o f-you phase. And this one is a little short, though I've promised myself that these will at least be around the 1000 word mark. Give or take a few hundred. **

**TELL ME IF YOU THINK THAT ANYONE IS OUT OF CHARACTER. PLEASE.**

**Anyway! Reviews are welcome, and please, please review (I know, I'm pathetic). Thoughts, criticisms, ideas, anything. Anything at all. Reviewers get a virtual cookie. **


	3. Chapter 3

**What is up ev-er-y-bo-day!**

**Sorry. I don't even know. **

**This took longer than I anticipated, but it always takes a while to get started, I've just been staring at a blank page for the past few days, before getting distracted and doing something else. So I wrote all of this today. Its late, so feel free to point out any lethargy errors. I had a good ending place, but then I felt that I had to continue because I didn't really want a Nothing Chapter again. So continue I did. **

**Friendly warning: John swears once or twice in this chapter, so cover your delicate ears/eyes if you forgot that this was rated T.**

**Hope you enjoy! *hugs for everyone, unless you really don't want one***

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Mrs. Hudson's voice wanders among the bookshelves, "Tea's ready! John, I have those shortcake biscuits that you like and Sherlock, I found your little chocolate things." When she comes into view, she winks at John, apparently oblivious to the rigid tension between them, "Only thing I've ever seen him eat, you know. Thin as a rake, he is." Sherlock rolls his eyes and John can only force a tight grimace that he fervently hopes will pass as a smile. He has always been a terrible liar. Mrs. Hudson's eyes dart between them, and then she sighs at Sherlock much in the way of an exasperated parent. "Oh Sherlock, you have to stop doing that." Sherlock, for his age, sticks out his bottom lip like a petulant child.

"Doing what?" His chin is up, defiant, though the sulk to his jaw rather contradicts the effect.

"You know exactly what I mean." She sighs. "I am very sorry, John," John can see the annoyance in her eyes, but underneath it is the posture of a woman that is very proud of Sherlock for his.. gift.

And really, now that he can speak without working through choking on his own breath, he finds that where there should be a roaring anger, there is only a small spark. He is actually- relieved. "Actually, its okay," He meets Sherlock's eyes, spine tall, "It's good. Helpful. Brilliant, really." And it is. Because Sherlock could see it all in front of him in a matter of seconds, eyes bright and calculating. John has never known anything like it. And to have it all laid out like that, "Brilliant." He says again. And he knows he must sound like an idiot, even more so in front of this genius with hair that seems to resist gravity and his sharp, piercing irises that flash like ice and mercury. He can only offer a grin in apology. Sherlock does not seem to know what to do with this new information, and it only makes the corners of John's lips lift wider, because the weight in his chest, inside his ribcage, is lightened, albeit only slightly. Sherlock coughs slightly, like his words catch in his throat for a second.

"Well. It's only exceptional because the rest of the world are idiots."

John is minutely thrown off by the impassive mask that moulds itself over Sherlock's cheek bones, but he sees the way his eyes flicker slightly, uncomfortably, and he decides that this boy is going to take a while to get used to. But John can adapt.

Mrs. Hudson is looking between them with a fond smile. "I knew you two would take a shine to each other, and look at you, getting along like a house on fire." She hands John the tea tray and pats him on the head. John thinks that this might be an exaggeration, but with the smooth marble expression and the piles of science books far beyond his age and the way he shifts uncomfortably, like he doesn't know what to do with people's smiles, it might not be, for Sherlock.

The bell above the door jingles from somewhere across the way, so Mrs. Hudson adjusts her cardigan and totters off, presumably back to her desk, leaving John to stand in the isle with cooling tea and two plates piled high with biscuits.

Sherlock is staring at him, like he is trying to pick apart the cells of John's skin, and when John clears his throat as quietly as possible, his shoulders jump slightly. He turns rapidly on the heel of what seem to be dress shoes, and ducks under the table. John stands awkwardly, at loss for what to do, until Sherlock calls gruffly, "Come on then!" and John begins the lengthy process of transferring the tray from one side of the desk to the other by way of under the table, the stacks of books making it impossible for him to pass it over.

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On the other side, Sherlock thunks books into some sort of order intangible to John's mind, clearing a space for the tray. The desk has been shoved up against the wall completely, and Sherlock sits cross legged against the window, the chipping white paint of the wood between the panes leaves flakes like dandruff all over the soft, deep-green of the seat.

The desk is wide and long, in the limited space, and the tray is pushed towards John, presumably a demand for him to pour the tea, and a thick encyclopedia lands in its place. John settles in at the other side of the enclosed alcove, roped off from the snap of pages, patrons in far corners, or the hushed mumble of conversation. If John was claustrophobic he would be having some trouble. Instead, he leans to tip the tea pot, filling the mugs absent mindedly and turning to look at Sherlock as he flips wildly through the glossy pages while it steeps. "So… interested in science, then?"

Sherlock sweeps a long arm in the air, gesturing to the piles of books that surround them. "Obviously."

"Forensics. Joining the force, then?" John has always been quite good holding conversation, he prides himself on being open, easy going. But he has the type of friends that smile and joke and make conversation back. Unlike this strange creature. But there is something completely captivating in the way that Sherlock is so contained, and yet gives the constant impression of thoughts tumbling behind his pale forehead.

"Bunch of idiots." Sherlock mutters, over the toss of the pages.

"So, ah. No, then."

"No." Well okay then. This is going swimmingly.

"So, the books?"

"I need more data." his eyebrows are drawn tight together, and his lips purse in concentration.

John suppresses the urge to ask what kind of teenage boy uses the word data in that context. But then again, it is the same kind of teenage boy that can read your family situation seconds after meeting you for the first time. "That… thing you did then -fantastic, by the way- can you do that with anyone?"

Sherlock glances up from his search, page suspended, to stare at John again, with that dissecting gaze of his. "Yes."

"Go on, then." It is partly a challenge and partly just for a laugh, but John's tone flashes across Sherlock's eyes, hardening them. He turns to look out the window, face almost pressed into the clear glass.

His eyes flick over the woman wearing a pale yellow sundress. "Seeing someone, new boyfriend just became serious. Won't last very long, they are from completely different social backgrounds. She paints, wants to be an illustrator, though she's doing it on the side. She owns a cat and her middle name is Sarah."

"How do I know you're not making all that up? And how did you know her name was Sarah?"

"She's wearing a necklace that is completely abrasive on the eyes, while she usually follows the trends, as made apparent by her dress and sandals." John eyes Sherlock's white shirt rolled up above his forearms and his loose slacks skeptically. If Sherlock notices he shows no signs of being offended. "Therefore, the necklace was a gift, and fairly new one at that, or she wouldn't be wearing it. So, the person means a lot to her, but doesn't know her well enough to pick something to her tastes. Fairly new boyfriend, then. Expensive jewelry though, so the relationship recently became serious. It was easy to see that she paints, from the splatters on her hand. She's been doing it long enough that she deems it normal to leave it there, and doesn't bother washing it off for a quick outing. Career is simple, multiple children's books are peeking out of her bag. Too old to be a baby sitter, too young to be a mother, on average, though one must allow for a certain margin of error. Also, all of those books are illustrated by famous illustrators, so she emulates their style. Someone so young does not break into the business easily, so she would not have the money to buy those clothes. She's not being supported by rich family members because her tastes in clothing and accessories do not speak of a wealthy upbringing, so she works some menial, boring job while illustrating in the evenings. Cat is simple, cat hairs on the hem of her dress."

John openly gapes at Sherlock and cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the woman as she moves around the corner. "That was just-" he searches unsuccessfully for a word. "Wait, what about her middle name, Sarah?"

Sherlock just looks at him, a slight smile twitching at his lips.

"That was just utter bullshit wasn't it." Sherlock rises defensively, and John puts up his hands to calm him down, "Not all of it, obviously. That was amazing. I meant the fact that her middle name was Sarah. Utter bullshit." Sherlock sinks back to relax against the cushions, curling up on himself like a lethargic cat.

"Perhaps." The smirk is evident, now.

"You bastard, you were just going to let me sit here and puzzle it out the entire time." John is grinning wildly now.

Sherlock makes a sound in response that is neither here nor there.

And John giggles. He doesn't think he's ever done that before, and he only laughs harder at the way it pulls up through his throat.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, like John is a new species that has just appeared out of thin air -slightly nervous, but completely enthralled- before he echoes with a rumble of his own, and they lean against the glass and laugh until they can't breath.

Later, when the library is silent, and the books on forensics have been haphazardly stuffed into the shelves closest to that desk against the window, Mrs. Hudson picks up the tea tray and empties the stone cold liquid down the drain, smiling to herself in the quiet.

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**Yay for awkward friendshipness. And I went right ahead and used a Johnlock cliche. You know the one where they are magically awesome friends. I apologize.**

**Oh gosh, deductions are difficult. Tell me if you think that I am total crap at them, and I'll try and cut them out. I just felt like I needed one in here. The problem with writing is that you have to find a balance with what you need to happen, what you want to happen, and what the story wants to happen. **

**I love you all. You are all brilliant. Especially you. You are beautiful (or handsome, if you prefer that).**


	4. Chapter 4

**Its been four weeks. Please, please don't hate me. Just make yourself some tea and read the chapter. I fell out of love with this story for a little bit, but I think we're back on track now. I am so sorry.**

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John flows along with hundreds of other children through the wide doors of the school and over the concrete, the white noise of chatter rising over the shrill ring of the last bell of the day. He slows amid the current slightly, when the relief of school being over is pushed aside by the dread of a house silent with the ringing of tension. He lingers for a handful of seconds just outside the school gate, its bars spaced wide enough apart to fit two fingers lengthwise through the gap. He exchanges a plastic nod and smile with Sam, who drums his fingers on the side of his desk during physics exams, which he drops as Sam turns away to fall into step with Alex and Sarah. Its Friday afternoon for god sakes. He should have somewhere to be besides locked in his room surfing the internet and doing homework. He's a teenage boy, he's meant to be going on dates and drinking and staying at friends houses - whose mothers don't smile nervously and retread into the living room when newcomers enter - not getting into bed and hoping to fall asleep so he doesn't have to deal with hours of being conscious and thinking.

But all he's been alienating himself lately, pulling out of the social groups, because its not that bad, his home life, really. It's fine, people all over the world have it much worse than he has it. Dealing with his parents and sister does not give him the right to whine over it, but he can't be normal, can't keep pretending like its okay. What would be good is if he could go to the library. It would be nice to see Sherlock, to not have to tug a sheet over all his emotions and stupid problems and just have someone know, but the library is closed today. Mrs. Hudson is off visiting her sister for an indefinite amount of time and he's only met Sherlock the one time. He doesn't really know anything about him. So John turns away from the gaping maw of the school's front doors, and tries to block out everything but the steady rhythm of his shoes against the pavement.

This is why he nearly accidently headbutts a solid chest completely out of the blue, struggling out his apologies though lips heavy with embarrassment to a pair of dusty converse. He jerks his head up, but instead of a stranger, he sees pale skin and a shock of dark hair framing a completely blank face. John's words don't stumble out this time, and he breaks into a slightly uncertain smile, "Sherlock, hey, how are you?" The sharpened line of Sherlock's lips break into lightly rounded curves of a cupids bow and his eyes begin to feel like they are hiding something like a soul.

"John, hello. I am fine, thank you." The boy replies, the darkness of his voice accentuated by the clipped politeness of his syllables.

John is just so relieved to see him, someone outside of school that he doesn't have to pretend with, someone delaying the opening of his front door, that he can't keep the grin off his face. "That's great Sherlock. What are you doing here?"

Sherlock manages to look slightly affronted, even when faced with such a benign statement, "I would have thought that was obviou-" he cuts himself off with a blink and a light breath, "I assumed that you would not be opposed to us… hanging out, this is what friends do, is it not?"

John spends a full two seconds watching the way Sherlock's face moves, fascinated by the oddity of it, but he pulls himself out of it, "Yes, okay, friends." He hesitates briefly at the quickness of the progression of their relationship, but Sherlock is odd, and yes, they're friends, Sherlock already knows more about him than anyone else at school.

At this Sherlock's face goes blank once again, "Ah, I see now that I have made a miscalculation. I apologize, I have been informed many times of my," he searches briefly for the words, "social ineptitude." The soles of his shoes seem to grate across the ground with the swiftness of his turn, and then he is striding away, hands stuffed into the pockets of his tailored school trousers, tie haphazardly flapping out of one of them, the blue showing even darker against the almost translucent skin tight against his flesh.

John lurches after him, wrapping the hand of his good arm around Sherlock's elbow, and the whole of Sherlock's body flinches. He whips out of John's hold and takes off, footfalls like shots of a machine gun against the buildings. John dumps his schoolbag in one motion and races after the other boy's lean form, "Sherlock! Sherlock, stop. Think about it, Sherlock I'm not going to hurt you." John barely finishes speaking before he catapults into Sherlock's now halted body, breathing a little quicker than normal. "Sherlock, I promise, I won't touch you. Why would you take off like that?" He holds his hands up in an international sign of surrender, eyebrows pulled in lines of concern.

Sherlock is breathing hard, and he runs a hand through his loose curls, nearly ripping the strands out with the tug. His eyes are wild but the smooth lines of his face are taught with a blankness, "I apologize, you are something of an enigma."

John flattens his own hair, not as unruly as Sherlock's, some of the light blond strands have slowly darkened to honey through the fall.

"No problem, I shouldn't have grabbed you," he smile is easy and a little hesitant, trying to reassure. "So, let's hang out, if you still want to, what did you have in mind?"

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**Cookies for all. Virtual non-creepy hugs for all who review, even if its just to rage at me for not updating, if anyone even cares that much. If you don't want hugs, or if physical contact isn't your thing, PM me something that you do like and I'll write you a piece of flash fiction on that, as an apology.**

**Mkay love you guys bye. Check out my profile for stuff that's going on, I update it every time I start working on something or I post an update. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Sherlock awkwardly attempts to 'hang out' with John. **

**Hey guys. I haven't updated for ages, because I suck. I know. At this very moment, I am sitting on a couch, in front of wide windows that look out directly over a promenade, and the foggy Belgian coast. Life is pretty good.**

**I do have to go back to school in a few days though *sadface* **

**I know this update is pretty blah. Nothing really happens, but it opens the doors for things to happen, which, if I can write them correctly, should be funny. Hopefully.**

**See you on the other side.**

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"It doesn't fit to the conventions, but I thought this would suit the situation adequately." Sherlock stands as if each vertebrae is frozen linked in a perfectly straight line, shoulders pressed wide, but the twitch of his fingers against the lines of his pocket pulls John's eyes away from his supposed confidence. John takes a proper look around, eyeing the smooth, blank gaze of the double glass doors, through which the entrance almost blazes white. Individuals, with names printed bold across pins attached pristinely to their white coats, buzz like insects in and out of John's line of sight.

"A hospital. Um, why?" He glances up to read the snap of emotion that appears on Sherlock's face and hastily adds, "I mean, I'm not complaining or anything. Just... wondering."

Sherlock's forehead creases in annoyance, not at John, but at himself. He meets John's eyes and just stares, drawing out the breath from John's throat with the intensity of it. The seconds crawl up his back. John doesn't have any clue of what Sherlock is thinking, but he's sure that he would never be able to grasp it, all he knows is that Sherlock is the most complex person he has ever met. And to support John's theory even further, Sherlock snaps his gaze away, swirling irises directed now to focus on the inner workings of the building in front of them.

'You're interested, and not completely inadept when it comes to science, biology in particular. I thought this would be mutually beneficial." He drags his cheeks up in a split second smile and pushes the door open with something that echoes finesse. John takes a spare glance at his slightly confounded expression in the sheen of the glass doors, and pushes in just behind Sherlock.

John follows Sherlock's footsteps, if slightly offbeat.

They make their way through a maze of corridors, Sherlock sometimes faltering slightly at forks in the path, but they eventually stop completely in front of double doors with a bold sign proclaiming 'OPERATING THEATER'. Sherlock looks up and down the hallway, noting its utter emptiness, and drags a chair from against the wall, over so he can look through the circular windows - like portholes - fingertips clenched against the rims. John snorts a little, a good natured smirk twirled across his lips. There's an inky blur of curls as Sherlock turns his head, and one stray twist balances over the bridge of his nose, tense, and then he relaxes cardboard shoulders, "Ah," his lips twist in mimic to John's, and his forehead creases, "I am to hit my growth spurt in a year or so."

John opens to a laugh now, "You just seem so... tall. Wait, come down here."

Sherlock sighs and dismounts, toes slipping off the edge and he bangs his knees against the plastic wood. John just barely steps up to grab his forearms before he tumbles over, slumping clumsily, bumping his forehead against John's and they both wince, even as the chair, propelled by Sherlock's right leg hooked around the back, bangs the door open, the sound echoing through the room inside.

They both freeze, John's fingers still wrapped around Sherlock's bony wrists. John whispers harshly into the curls tickling his cheeks with every blink, "Was there anyone in there?"

There's a humph of breath against his neck and Sherlock pulls out of John's stony grasp, but keeps his long fingers twisted into one of John's jacket sleeves. "Come on."

He then proceeds to push past the chair and into the sterilized room. John does attempt to dig his heels in a bit, "What, we can't go in."

Sherlock barges on, tugging along his reluctant follower.

The color blue is overwhelming, as is all the white. Four of the occupants glance up, glaring, three others occupied with the body sliced wide, and all of their gloved hands are flecked with blood.

_Oh God. Oh God. What is- What the hell. Shit. What to I say. WHAT DO I SAY._

John stops in his tracks, and takes a long breath, mouth open, eyes wide. Like a bloody fish, and he has no clue what to say. He probably would have begun to spout utter driveling idiocy, had Sherlock not smoothly interrupted.

"Hello, Father. And Mycroft."

John relaxes slightly. Sherlock knows these people.

That doesn't, of course, change the fact that they have just barged in on an operation. And John very much does not know these people.

Sherlock's father, and Mycroft, who must be his older brother - you could go on the name alone - stand at the head of the patient, observing, hands held identically behind their backs, legs shoulder width apart. Their hair color is shared, a dark ginger, and their noses are long, almost hooked, but the few curls peeking from under the father's blue cap, have obviously been passed down to form Sherlock's, though the younger's are rather more messy.

No matter the relation, their faces do not read 'joy', no its more a solid gaze that promises bloody murder. The younger one, the brother, looks as if he is attempting to die a dignified death while choking on a lemon.

One of the men standing by, glares at Sherlock's father. And the returning gaze seems to solidify his joints, and then melt them until the man retreats, meekly.

Sherlock tugs John's immobile form forwards, until they are standing behind Sherlock's relations.

* * *

**So, at this moment, there are a few directions that this could go in.**

**1: Fluffish. You know, standard together forever, dealing with teen relationship teen!lock.**

**2: The other standard, terrible relationship with parents, which impacts the relationship, and they fall apart and then become stronger than ever type thing.**

**3: Angst. the relationship will take a lot longer to emerge, and there will be a lot more plot and tension. *hint hint***

**4: Even more angst. Basically number three, but with plot and even more tension. *also hint hint***

**So basically either three or four. They will both be massively fun to write, and read. (hopefully)**


	6. Chapter 6

**One person wanted angst. And that is one out of one, so basically 100%.**

**YAY!**

**But the angst won't come along for a while yet. Anyway, hope y'all are doing great. If you're not, have some ice cream. If you are, have some ice cream anyway.**

**I hope this chapter sort of makes up for the utter terrible boring ness of the last chapter. Maybe. Its midnight at the moment, and I'm driving four hours up to school tomorrow, so this is all I have for you at the moment, seeing as I shall be devoid of internet for all of tomorrow.**

**Yeah, I know Halloween is over, but I couldn't resist leaving a John and Sherlock trick or treating option open for later. **

**NOTE: YEAH I CAN'T REMEMBER ANYTHING ABOUT HOSPITALS SO MOST OF EVERYTHING I WRITE ABOUT HOSPITALS IS PRETTY MUCH MADE UP, OR TAKEN FROM MEMORIES OF A TEENY TINY HOSPITAL WHERE I'M FROM. SORRY.**

* * *

And so follows minutes in which John is absolutely enthralled - and, admittedly, slightly nauseated - by the procedure before them. He is very aware of the palable tension in the air, and that they very definitely should not be here, but this is an absolutely fantastic opportunity. He's glanced over at Sherlock with a smile on a face washed white with blood a couple of times, but Sherlock is always intensely focused on the sight, bright eyes flicking over every steady movement of the surgeons' hands.

John slowly shifts back to awareness of the people around him, as slick white hands - smooth with the red of leaking blood - begin to sew the incision back up, and for the first time, the imposing man in front of him begins to grow restless. Fingers tap tap tap a shivering rhythm on the back of a hand, and there is a change in Sherlock's posture. In the eternity of a second, John feels a whole shuddering dimension move into place, one were tension seeps like searching tendrils through the air to wrap around tense muscles and hold them, quivering. As soon as this surgery ends, this man, Sherlock's father, will give them both ice cold Hell for being here.

Sherlock seems to know this too, and a cool hand once again grips his wrist and the soles of their shoes make echoes of the floor. John very carefully does not look back at what must be a glaring fury.

They have just made it out of the door, before footsteps sound behind them, and a voice, "Mr. Holmes, we aren't finished yet. You said you wanted to observe the effects of the anesthetic."

"Yes, thank you. I really must find my son though, I trust there will be another viewing set up?" This one is rough and dark.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes."

John's lungs clench, but Sherlock is already leading them off, through a twist of corridors, and once, when Sherlock's father is close behind, up a flight of stairs, blocks of harsh angles and stinging white. They twist around a corner and nearly launch into a woman pushing a food trolley. She glances at them, up and down, and then a smile slips across her face, eyes alighting on Sherlock.

"Oh, you must be Simon. Is this your boyfriend?" She grins wildly at John, and adds in a whisper, "You two are all Mr. Solomon ever talks about."

John takes half a second before he winds a hand around the one clutching his jacket. "Uh yeah, can we see him?"

The nurse beams, delighted. "Of course. You're his first visitors, you know."

And then Sherlock chimes in, "We were meaning to stop by earlier, but we've been incredibly busy, Halloween coming up and all. I call him every day, but he keeps insisting I have my famous Halloween party ready."

John glances over at Sherlock while he speaks, astounded by the new manner he holds, that have appeared almost instantly. The new slant in his walk, the way his eyebrows are slightly more raised, making him appear more open, the way he seems to gravitate more towards John. He is a completely different person.

John stumbles for words, "Uh, yeah. He loves Halloween. I'm just in it for the candy."

They've both sped up their pace now, conscious of the marble face that could appear from around the corner at any second. Finally, the nurse turns to a door that is uniform with all the others, and pushes in.

"Hello, Mr. Solomon?"

The man on the bed, covers tucked tight over the deep rise and fall of his chest, is pale and sagging with age. As they enter the room, it becomes obvious that the nurse linked this man's nest of curls to Sherlock's.

Mr. Solomon shifts slightly, sitting up and blinking bleary eyes, heavy with the suggestion of sleep.

The nurse stands by the door, holding it open, and the two boys find themselves trapped between two situations slipping rapidly from bad to worse.

John clears his throat, "Uh, hey Mr. Solomon. Simon and I thought we'd come and see you." John has never wanted telepathy more in his entire life.

Sherlock's fingers dig in against his, as heavy shoes echo in the silence of the hallway. He turns to smile at the nurse, "Why don't you stay a while?"

A light blush blooms pink across her freckled cheeks, "Oh no, I don't want to interrupt anything."

But Sherlock is not about to give his father any way of finding them, "No really, its fine. I'm sure you must be very tired."

The nurse is very nearly won over, she spares a conspiratry glance at the man in the bed, "Mr. Solomon?"

When he finally speaks, the sounds is drawn up through the roughness his throat, and it lands heavy in the air, "I've told you, Susanne, call me Lester, and you know they work you far too hard."

Her nose wrinkles playfully twisting a constellation of freckles across milky skin, and she scoots a chair across the bedside from them.

Sherlock glances around at the little gathering, noting that John seems to be having an intense staring competition with a wilting plant in the corner, and filters his sigh carefully through flared nostrils.

* * *

**They won't be a couple for a while yet, but that doesn't mean I can't put them in situations like this. Sorry (notsorry).**

**Anyway. **

**I was gonna say something, but I'm too tired to remember what it was, I had like two hours of sleep last night. I'm going to close my eyes right after this. Right after I post this, I promise.**

**And, angst shall arrive, hopefully within the next few chapters. Parental issues, anyone? No worries, that'll just kick us off, I've got a whole plot line of very fun things to come. Well, I say fun...**


End file.
